


another girl's paradise

by lagaudiere



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagaudiere/pseuds/lagaudiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Leliana doesn't remember dying. She remembers stepping forward to defend Andraste's ashes, the sharp clash of her blades against the Warden's, the feel of the steel at her throat. She remembers that even in that moment, she felt at peace. But she doesn't remember the pain. "</p><p>Leliana believes that the Maker gave her a second chance on life. Josephine derails her idea of how she was meant to use it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another girl's paradise

Leliana doesn't remember dying. She remembers stepping forward to defend Andraste's ashes, the sharp clash of her blades against the Wardens', the feel of the steel at her throat. She remembers that even in that moment, she felt at peace. But she doesn't remember the pain. 

The Warden was a spoiled child, that was all he was. A man raised in the nobility who had never been told "no" before. He had been willing to desecrate the remains of the Maker's bride, and for what? Only for power. 

She doesn't remember dying, but she remembers waking up again, in the silence and the cold of an empty cave, with the Urn of Sacred Ashes scattered on the floor. When she put her hand to her throat, there was no wound and no blood. In the quiet, she could hear the lyrium singing beneath her skin. 

Leliana gathered as much of the ashes as she could into her hands. There was so little left now of the prophet. She stared at the gray powder in her hands, so wispy and insubstantial, but she did not weep. 

Leliana had always been blessed with faith and with certainty. The Maker had allowed her to be strong, never to waver. The Maker had spoken to her alone among all his followers; he had led her on this mission, and she had done all that she could. But the Warden had betrayed her. 

She knew now, with as much sureness as she had ever felt, that she was called to something else now. 

The spirit of Andraste was not within those ashes. It was in her blood. 

*** 

She doesn't feel the same pain within herself anymore. She doesn't feel the sadness or the fear that she used to and need to cover it with a laugh or a smile. 

Things like hunger, thirst, cold, they aren't the same anymore. She can feel them, but she doesn't feel the emotional distress that she used to; it's all outweighed by her overwhelming calm. 

She doesn't know quite what she is. No one could argue she isn't alive, but she doesn't know what would kill her, if she could even die. 

There is a steady glowing warmth in her chest, like a candle flame that never dies. 

She is called, she knows, not to live in contemplation and prayer anymore. She is called to the heart of the chantry. 

“The Maker raised me from the dead,” she says at the foot of the Sunburst Throne, and the Divine does not believe her. 

“Young sister,” Justina says, “if you expect to be recognized as a second Andraste, you are sorely mistaken.” 

But Leliana feels no shame, only the bright and burning calm. 

“Then allow me to serve you in any way I can,” Leliana says. “I am a bard and a spy and I commend my skills to the service of Your Grace.”

In a year, she is the Left Hand.

When she finds Justinia, she knows that the Maker has led her on the right path. This is a woman who she can trust. 

Leliana is always at the left, and Cassandra is always at her right. Cassandra is a worthy woman as well; the spine of a warrior, the heart of a chantry sister, and the mind of a politician, Leliana thinks. In all likelihood, Cassandra will be the next Divine. 

Leliana knows before anyone else that the blight has returned to Thedas; she feels it as an ache in her chest. When she and Cassandra are given their orders, her serendipity returns. They are doing what is right: they will change the course of history. There can be no other way. 

***  
It was her idea to bring Josephine into the inquisition, and yet it already seems like a mistake. 

It's the first time she has been around anyone who knew her, before. Cassandra has never questioned her, and the two of them have an easy companionship of mutual quiet, their worries rarely spoken aloud. If Cassandra thinks she is hiding something, she would never ask what. 

Josephine knows the woman she used to be.

Josephine pours her a glass of wine and looks at her with searching eyes. 

 

“Left hand of the divine,” she says conversationally. “Do you realize, the last time I saw your face, you weren’t even a believer?” 

Leliana smiles serenely. “It's been too long,” she says, but Josephine doesn't seem content with that. 

"You seem so different," she continues. "I heard rumors that you had traveled with the hero of Ferelden." She hesitates. "I even heard rumors that you had died." 

Leliana takes a slow sip of her wine. She doesn't know how to answer. The years between them seem like the distance between two worlds. The distance between who she is now and the young girl who laughed with Josie and pinned stolen underclothing to a chantry board is a gap that will never close. 

"He may have saved Ferelden," she says eventually, "but he wasn't a good man." 

 

“I understand,” Josephine says. She's quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Sometimes power can show you a person's dark heart.” 

Leliana smiles sardonically and raises her wineglass. “That's why I prefer life in the shadows,” she says. 

The power that runs in her veins is Andraste’s power, she reminds herself. There is nothing dark about that. 

“I hope you won't be a stranger,” Josephine says. “I know that we chose different paths--” 

She breaks off awkwardly. Leliana thinks she sees a flash of shame in her face, as though part of her still thinks of herself as weak. Even back then, Leliana had known that Josephine, who had the courage to dream of peace in a world where it seemed impossible, was the strong one. 

“We are in the same place now,” she says, and Josephine smiles. 

***  
She makes the decisions that the inquisitor will be known as the Herald of Andraste, and she doesn't regret it. The chantry’s people flock to their cause as if they were not idolatrous rebels at all. Leliana is lucky to know the Maker’s will. She wonders if she could have believed as easily if she did not. 

She looks at their inner circle, at even the believers like Cassandra and Cullen, and sees so much doubt. 

“I've never known anyone who believed in the Maker as deeply as you do,” Cassandra tells her when they pray together. “I hope I can be that sure someday.” 

“I'm sure it seems strange,” Leliana says, “a spymaster who is so devote.” 

“I didn't say that,” Cassandra says hastily. 

Leliana sets a hand on her shoulder. “It's alright. We don't always understand each other’s callings.” 

“But you are sure of what you're doing?” Cassandra says. 

Leliana thinks of the weight of all the people who stand carry their sick children to Skyhold and send letters about the dying crops compared to the thought of a knife cutting out the tongue of a magister.

The Maker cannot save every life. He allows his children to suffer, to live with the consequences of this fallen world, because otherwise their choices would mean nothing. But he has chosen her, and she will see justice for all of them. That is his will. 

“I am sure,” she says. 

***  
The inquisitor is a flighty child, another young man who life has asked nothing from. He looks as though he might collapse under the weight of the responsibility, but the true decisions belong to his advisors. 

There's little reason for Leliana to ever stop writing. She doesn't need sleep anymore in the way she used to. Even when the exhaustion comes, she can fight it; her eyes don't close and her attention doesn't wander. 

At night, she rarely leaves her office. At any hour, a missive could arrive from a distant corner of Thedas with news that will consume her mind. 

Josephine could never be accused of being less than devoted, but she still has all the vulnerabilities that Leliana does not. She gathers up her papers at the end of the night and goes home. 

But one night when all of Skyhold is dark, there is a silhouette in Leliana's door. 

"Are you awake?" that familiar Antivan voice asks her. 

Josephine is standing there in a nightgown, her hair unraveled from its usually impeccable style, and she looks almost insubstantial in the candlelight for someone, like a wraith. 

"I'm here," Leliana says softly. 

Josephine doesn't leave the doorway. "We lost another ten soldiers today," she murmurs. "Do you think he is a good leader?" 

Leliana doesn't have to ask who she means. "He's not leading alone," she says evasively. "We make decisions together. The important thing is the people's belief. They believe in the Herald of Andraste." 

In the darkness, she can't quite see the look on Josephine's face. "Do you believe in him?" she asks. 

When she looks at the Herald of Andraste, Leliana feels nothing. No quiet feeling has come to her in prayer and told her their path is righteous. There is a hollow in her chest where that steady calm should be. 

"None of us can know what the Maker intends for us," she answers. It's less honesty than Josephine deserves. 

 

“I believe,” Josephine says, “that if the Maker sent us anyone, it must be you.” 

It's the kind of thing said only in the quiet of the night, when no one else in Skyhold can hear, and Josephine does not say it again in the daylight. 

 

***  
They both work too much, Leliana knows that, but of course she worries about Josephine more than herself. Josephine is too human, too vulnerable. 

Sometimes Leliana wishes she could tell her, give Josephine the certainty and rightness that she feels. But who would believe her, that the Maker has chosen her? The Warden certainly never did. 

“Do you ever still practice your archery?” Leliana asks her one afternoon as they pour over documents on the inquisition’s finances together. 

Josephine presses too hard on her quill, unconsciously leaving a smear of ink across the page. “I can’t say that I do, no,” she says lightly. 

She was never one of the better marksmen Leliana knew, but there was some potential, if she had cared to cultivate it. It wasn’t her hands that weren’t meant for the life of a bard. 

“I could practice with you, sometime,” Leliana says, too casually. Josephine must know exactly what she wants--the assurance that Josephine could defend herself, if she ever had to. 

“I think that would be a good idea,” Josephine says slowly. 

She takes her out to the wilderness outside the fortress’ walls later that night, when official business is over for the moment. If someone needs them, they’ll find them--that’s the reassuring thing about having the weight of the world on your shoulders. 

“It’s been so long since I did this.” Josephine holds the bow Leliana gave her awkwardly; she doesn’t even have one of her own anymore. 

“You never forget how,” Leliana assures her. “Let me show you.” 

***  
Leliana watches the soldiers from the tower, a raven perched on her shoulder. Every day there are injuries, some that the mages can't fix quickly enough. The dying beg for the Herald of Andraste to come and touch them, in the hopes that he can heal their wounds, and sometimes when Leliana sees that she touches her throat unconsciously, feeling from a scar. 

There is nothing that he can do for them. They have not been chosen by Andraste, and there is no power in his hands. 

When she watches them all preparing for battle, she feels the righteousness of their cause, but in the back of her mind is another thought, one much more selfish. She's grateful that Josephine is not among them. 

This kind of selfish love has never been good for her. Even in her new life, there is still a bitter taste in her mouth when she thinks of Marjolaine. 

Maybe it isn't the right thing to do, but Cassandra is away on a mission and she's lonely, at the top of her tower. Leliana scrawls a note and gives it to one of the ravens. 

Its recipient appears in the doorway only a few minutes later. 

“I hope I did not interrupt anything important,” Leliana says. 

“It was nothing,” Josephine replies. “Planning outfits and etiquette lessons for Celene’s ball. Dreadful.” 

“The game seems insignificant now,” Leliana says. She gestures to the stop on the windowsill beside her, and Josephine crosses the room to sit down. “But you were always one of the best players I knew.” 

“You as well,” Josephine quickly replies. She is well-practiced indeed in the art of tact and grace; anyone would assume that she meant it. Leliana knows better. 

“No, I always needed a cloak and dagger to get what I wanted.” 

It is what made her useful to the Maker, but she worries that it has also made Josephine see her differently than she sees herself, as ruthless. 

“I never---” Josephine isn't looking at her. Her hands twist nervously in the folds on her skirt. “I never thought that about you. Not until--” 

“Not until now,” Leliana says, resigned. 

“I just want to know what happened,” Josephine says, and her eyes snap back to Leliana’s face. “Can you tell me what happened to you?” 

Leliana’s heart beats too fast in her chest. She's nervous in a way that she hardly remembers feeling. There is nothing she can say, nothing that will make sense, that will make the kind of person she has become understandable to Josephine. 

“I wish that we could understand each other,” she says. “Like we used to.” 

“Why don’t we?” Josephine is looking at her with searching eyes, and she’s abandoned her diplomatic tact. This is sincere, and that’s something neither of them are accustomed to being anymore. 

Leliana feels tears prickling at her eyes, and she’s not accustomed to that either. She shouldn’t feel like way, so unsteady, so wrong. There is no reason for her to feel guilty when the right path is as clear as it has ever been. 

“Just tell me,” she says, “why it matters so much to you.” 

Josephine draws in a deep breath, and they’re looking each other in the eye now, so little distance between them, so far from what Leliana should want. “I think you know why,” Josephine says, a little harshly. “I think you know that I care about you.” 

Leliana reaches out almost unconsciously and grasps Josephine’s hand between both of her own, and Josephine’s looking at her with a bright look in her eye that must be hope. “I know, Josie,” she says. “I know that you care.” 

“I’d hoped you did,” Josephine says, and before Leliana can breathe Josephine’s hands are on her face, drawing her closer. “I’d hoped.” 

When Josephine’s lips meet hers, Leliana’s heart almost leaps into her throat. It’s been so long since someone touched her like this, and Josephine is so warm, a kind of warmth that nothing within herself could ever compare to. There’s a kind of softness and brightness in Josephine’s kiss that makes her almost dizzy, and she can’t remember the last thing that really compared to this. Maybe nothing. Maybe never. 

“Leliana,” Josephine whispers, and kisses her gently just below her ear, where she must be able to feel her pulse--still beating, Leliana reminds herself, still alive. “I hoped, I thought maybe--I’m glad you feel the same.”

But it isn’t right, no matter how much they might both want to ignore what’s been said, to carry on as though it wasn’t there at all. 

“I need you to know,” Leliana murmurs. “I need you to understand what really happened to me.”

“Then tell me,” Josephine says, almost pleading. “There’s nothing I don’t want to hear.” 

“You haven’t heard this yet.” Leliana lets go of her hand, and she tells her the truth. 

Josephine pulls away from her, as she had known that she would, and her hands have gone back to worrying the folds of her dress, knuckles pale and tight. Leliana can feel whatever they had slipping away from her and surely as if it had been dropped from the top of the tower. It feels like the flame that had been lit in her chest is flickering, about to die. 

“What does this mean?” Josephine asks her sharply. “What--I mean, you never seemed--” 

“Insubstantial?” Leliana laughs, but it feels hollow. “I'm not a ghost, exactly.” 

“Then what are you?” Her voice is almost breaking. “Tell me, Leliana.” 

Leliana closes her eyes. “You don’t believe me.” 

Josephine shakes her head. “How can I?” 

“I held a blade to my wrist once,” Leliana tells her. “I had a moment of doubt, I wanted to know if I could do it. What would happen to me if I hurt myself. I tried, Josie, but with all the strength I had I couldn’t move my own hand.” 

Josephine draws in a sharp gasp of breath at that, and then bites her lip anxiously. The only thing Leliana can do now is tell her the truth, all of it, as much as she can. 

“Do you believe me?” Leliana says gently. She stares down at the ground below, such a long way to fall. She still feels as though she could, but maybe she’s wrong. “You said once that you thought the Maker might have chosen me.” 

“I didn’t mean--” Josephine bites off her words; she was raising her voice a little, sounds angry instead of sad for the first time. “I was raised in the chantry,” she says. “I was a good person. I’ve always tried to do the right thing, Leliana. I’ve never killed anyone, I’ve tried not to hurt anyone.” Her voice is shaky, still hesitant. “I never heard anything when I prayed.” 

“I understand,” Leliana says, and she gets to her feet and leaves. 

***

The Winter Ball is everything that Leliana used to love. The glitter of the ballgowns, the murmur of intrigue in the air, the dozens of people who she might, in her former life, have eyed from across the room with the intent of approaching them either for pleasure, secrets, or both.

This was where she thrived, once, but it seems like a half dozen lifetimes ago, and now she can barely bring herself to be interested in the political business they've come to address. She could handle this more easily with a few glasses of poisoned wine if she’d been given the chance. The only thing she had focus on for very long are the platters of elaborate chocolates. 

She couldn't help thinking of what silly girls they'd been the last time she and Josephine were together at a party like this. She had never been meant for that life; she was already an orphan and a killer, a sharp blade covered in satin. But she hoped Josephine would never lose the ease with which she enjoyed nights like this, the easy grace of someone who could put her worries aside. 

Cassandra looks as unimpressed as she feels. She's a soldier, someone who constitutionally has little use for nights like this, and she eyes the nobility around them with an outsider’s fundamental suspicion, although Leliana knows she must once have belonged here. 

“The Empress and Gaspard have been persuaded to work together,” she reports to Leliana, sliding out of the shadows to her side. “The inquisitor has instructed us to--” she frowns deeply “--enjoy the rest of the evening.” 

“A triumph for the inquisition,” Leliana says neutrally. 

“Certainly.” Cassandra studies her face with a characteristically troubled look. “Leliana--it is not my place, perhaps, but… have you spoken to her?” 

“To whom?” Leliana says sharply. For as long as she and Cassandra have known one another, it has been an unquestioned axiom of their friendship that if either of them have a private life, the other does not care to know about it. 

But Cassandra is very blunt with her now. “The ambassador,” she says. “Anyone would have noticed that the two of you are not speaking.” She pauses and rethinks that. “Anyone but the commander and the herald, that is.” 

Leliana turns away from her. They have always worked exceptionally well together, but Cassandra is no more equipped to understand this than anyone else. She is a believer, but one with both feet planted firmly on the ground. She would see Leliana’s story as blasphemy both to the chantry and to the inquisition. 

“It is none of my affair,” Cassandra says stiffly when she doesn’t respond. “All I mean is that I would hate to see you both unhappy.” 

Before she can organize her thoughts, Josephine dances into the corner of her eye on the arm of an elderly Orlesian man who seems a bit too enthusiastic about his two-step and his partner. She casts a desperate look at Leliana and Cassandra, which Cassandra immediately joins with a pointed glare in Leliana’s direction. 

There seems to be no point in resisting. 

“Attempt to have a good time, Cassandra, she says sourly, and steps out onto the dance floor. 

Josephine gives her a grateful look when she cuts in. Her partner is sour--Josephine stands out among all the women in the room even in her inquisition uniform. 

“Are we allowed to dance together?” Leliana says testily. She doesn't know how much Orlesian high society has changed. 

“Considering what Empress Celene is like, I don't think anyone will notice,” Josephine laughs. 

So Josephine will dance and laugh and work with her, a madwoman who believes she hears the voice of the Maker, but she can’t love her. Leliana can understand that. 

They revolve in a few small turns for a moment. Leliana can’t believe that she ever put so much effort into memorizing such a frivolous activity, and she can’t even do it automatically now--the dance steps in Orlais change as often as the skirt lengths. Josephine, of course, knows it by heart. 

“How long do you think we need to stay tonight?” Leliana sighs. She can see Cassandra being dragged into conversation with a phalanx of diplomats. It would be better for everyone if they could make their escape. 

Josephine’s eyes dart around the room in a way that Leliana recognizes as carefully trained, taking stock of the room. “Why don’t we get out of here?” 

“Do you want to be here with me?” Leliana can’t help asking. 

Josephine looks troubled, but she forces a lighthearted tone. “Can you steal of a bottle of wine?” 

“I was a bard,” Leliana says, responding in kind.  
Josephine winks. “Then I’ll meet you outside.” 

Leliana procures two bottles of wine from the nearest distracted attendant and dodges through the rosebushes in Celene’s courtyard until she finds Josephine, looking a little lost among the fluttering lights shining down on them. When she sees Leliana approaching, she puts up one hand and waves in a shy, awkward way.

“It’s pretty out here,” Leliana says, attempting to be conversational. She uncorks one of the bottles of wine with her knife and hands it to Josephine, who takes a deep drink. 

Leliana can tell when someone’s looking for liquid courage. 

“Why are we doing this?” she asks, resigned to an answer she won’t want to hear. 

Josephine ignores the question entirely and takes another swig of wine. “You used to love dancing,” she says instead. “Would you try it again?” 

Leliana shakes her head. “No music.” 

“You used to love to sing as well!” Josephine looks at her pleadingly. “You could just hum?” 

Leliana sighs. “If you insist.” She starts a tune, as softly as she can, and Josephine takes her hand and sweeps her into a waltz. 

“Is that a hymn?” Josephine asks her. 

“It’s an old Fereldan tragedy ballad,” Leliana tells her. “There is more than one side to me, you know.” 

Josephine’s laughter is sad. She rests her head on Leliana’s shoulder, and they sway like that for a while, quietly until Leliana resumes her song. 

“Can we sit down for a moment?” Josephine says abruptly. “I need some more wine.” 

There’s an old stone bench that must have outlived half a dozen emperors and empresses nearby. They pass the wine back and forth, making idle small talk about the various nobles they can play against one another until Leliana can’t stand it anymore. 

“I know you wanted to talk to me, Josie,” she says. “Please, talk.” 

Josephine drains the rest of the bottle. 

“I thought about it,” Josephine says. “I tried to understand why you would believe what you believe. I couldn’t think that you were lying to me, I, I know you.” 

“So you thought I was delusional, then.” 

“No!” Josephine looks shocked at Leliana’s sadness, rushes to put a hand on her shoulder. “No, I thought, Leliana, you are the most intelligent person I know. The most brave. And I have never known anyone like you, anyone who believed as much as you do and who cared so much for other people, because you believe that we are all the Maker’s children.” 

So there is still something good left in her, in Josephine’s eyes. Leliana resists the urge to shrug her hand off her shoulder. 

“You said that you didn’t understand why the Maker would choose me,” she says. 

“That was wrong of me.” Josephine is trying to make eye contact with her, but Leliana can’t quite bring herself to look back. “I see the way that you look at our soldiers when they are bleeding, the way you respect everyone in the inquisitor’s circle.” 

“I’ve killed people,” Leliana says harshly. She can still see her bow in her mind’s eye aimed straight at Marjolaine's heart. 

“I know.” Josephine’s voice is steady and self-assured. “And I will always try to find another way. But the other way is not always there, and who will tell me the truth like you will? Who would I trust to know other than you?” She laughs shakily. “I have never doubted that your choices were right. I looked around at all the people who believed in the Herald of Andraste, and I thought, if they can see her spirit in him, why couldn’t I see it in my Leliana?” 

Leliana’s heart is beating too loudly, and she wants to berate herself for how much she wants, needs, the approval of Josephine, who is just one person, when she has something so much greater on her side. 

“Maybe we are part of the Maker’s plan as well,” Josephine says, taking her hand. “I can understand why he would not let you die.” 

Leliana can’t help but laugh, and the loudness of it takes her by surprise. It’s the brightness and most genuine sound she’s made since she can remember. And maybe it isn’t calm, isn’t serene, but not all love is. 

“If we all make it through this alive,” Leliana says, “you’ll understand that I had a purpose.” 

“I already understand that,” Josephine says fervently. 

But she kisses her like nothing else matters, and for the moment Leliana can believe in that as well. 

***  
“It's over,” Leliana says suddenly. “It's over.” 

They're sitting together in the tower at Skyhold, and Josephine’s hand clenches must together around hers. “What do you mean?” Josephine says, looking at with frantic, wide eyes. 

They’ve been waiting for a word, for any sign, of whether the battle against Corypheus might be over. Leliana hadn’t realized that she might not need the word. But she felt it, and she was certain of what that feeling was. For the first time in the longest time, there was no sense of purpose, and she felt the loss as though something had been suddenly yanked out of her chest. 

“It’s over, Josie,” she repeats. “We won.” 

“He’s dead?” Josie asks, and she nods, embraces Josephine with all of her strength and then kisses her briefly, but it doesn’t feel joyful, and Josephine barely responds. 

“You said that was what the Maker meant for you to do,” Josephine says, barely above a whisper. 

She’d understood, instantly, as much as Leliana had. She shouldn’t have underestimated her. Josephine was so often two steps ahead of her. 

“What happens to you now?” Josephine says. 

Leliana feels tears coming to her eyes again, and she looks within herself for something that would comfort her, warm her. It isn’t there. 

“I don’t know,” Leliana says, and Josephine’s arms are around her at the moment her tears finally spill over and she breaks into sobs that shake her shoulders. “I don’t know.” 

***  
She had never thought about what would happen if the Maker no longer needed her, if her purpose had been fulfilled--not until Josephine. It seems as though it should have been abrupt; she should have fallen on the spot. Instead, if anything, it feels like a slow fading. Something within her is gone, but her heartbeat remains, and she doesn’t know when, or if, the Maker will see fit to stop it. 

Still, she wonders if there might be something else that she is meant for. 

She had always expected Cassandra to be the next divine. She had the leadership and the steady hand that the chantry needed. In ordinary times, it would have been her.

But these are not ordinary times, and the choice belongs, ultimately, to the inquisitor. 

He asks her what she would do with the mages, and Leliana considers her answer carefully. There is no easy one, and a voice doesn’t immediately come to her from the back of her mind, but when she answers that she would give them their freedom she knows that she is making the right choice. Even if it costs her the throne. 

The final decision is in the hands of the chantry, but the inquisitor’s recommendation will mean a great deal. Perhaps too much. 

Days after she receives word from her spices that the official choice is being considered, she spends most of her time in her office. A spymaster’s work is never truly done, not while the inquisition remains a political power. There are rumors of moments against them from every direction, all the time. 

Still, the knock on her door is a welcome distraction. 

“Come in,” she calls, and it's Josephine, still catching her breath and clutching a letter in her hands. Leliana shouldn't dare to hope, but she already is, before she can stop herself.

“I have news for you,” Josephine says, and there is a tiny smile at the corners of her mouth. “The Herald asked me to be the one to tell you.” 

Leliana sets down her pen.

“The chantry has ruled on the next divine,” Josephine says. “Congratulations, Leliana. They’ve chosen you.” 

***  
“I like the name Divine Victoria,” Leliana says. “Victorious, that is the kind of leader I will be.” 

She looks over at Josephine, smiling gently. She still hasn't gotten used to the sight of Josie’s head on her pillow, her black curls spread out against the white sheets in the most beautiful spirals. 

“Victorious indeed,” Josephine laughs, and pulls her in for a kiss. 

“You're so beautiful,” Leliana says, tracing her fingers around the edges of Josephine’s lips. She closes her eyes, and Leliana kisses her eyelids.

She feels light-headed, almost drunk on her happiness. It feels like the greatest mercy in the world, to have all this. 

“I have to tell you something,” Josephine says suddenly. Her eyes are still closed, and Leliana pulls away slowly. 

“It's alright,” Leliana says. “You can tell me anything.” 

“I was engaged,” Josephine says, and for a moment Leliana feels ice rush to her heart. “An arranged marriage,” Josephine says quickly, eyes back on her. “My parents’ idea. I wrote to them that I was breaking the engagement.” She smiles a little, hesitant and hopeful. “I told her I was taking chantry vows. Pledging my life to the Maker.” 

“Unusually devote for you,” Leliana whispers, reaching for Josephine’s hand. 

She takes it, kisses Leliana’s palm. “To the Divine, then.” 

Josephine kisses her with so much joy that Leliana could get lost in it, could give up the rest of the world just for this. But she doesn't have to. 

“I prayed,” Leliana confesses, “I prayed that the Maker would let me stay with you.” 

“So did I,” Josephine replies, and Leliana feels more solid and real than she ever has in her life.


End file.
